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#sometimes cornies are just taped to the ceiling
vex-bittys · 1 year
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It had been enough time since she last visited Vex Bitty adoptions. Cinnamon and Saffron were now settled with their own nesting sites and had expressed the desire to get more friends. Atlas was now walking to Vex bitty shop with all her current bitties in tow. Her Felids were settled into a comfy bag happily chatting and having a flexing contest. She was flanked by both Nutmeg the Papy and Saffron the honey bo. Each holding one of her hands as Cinnamon the spicy little Coral napped in her hood curled around her neck like a sneklace. Without hesitation she opened the shop door ready for her new friends. She calmly moved to the counter and smiled “Hi there Vex it’s me again. Just coming in with the gang for some new friends. I’m looking for a corny, a king, a krait and a Firering today. I’m fully brushed up on my sign language and ready for my new friends.”
*It is very important to you to allow your Honey Bo and Coral to help select the new members of the family since they need to feel comfortable with these new lamias. You’re still chatting with Vex about the new lamias you’d like to add to your family when a Corny drops from the ceiling with a plop! A piece of duct tape is still stuck to his middle. Thankfully, Nutmeg the Papython prevents disaster by catching the Corny, but no explanation is ever forthcoming about why exactly the Corny was taped to the ceiling to begin with. Instead, he just grins lazily and apologizing for “dropping in.” Your other two lamias snort at the pun, so you consider the Corny selection a success.
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*Your Felids are practically vibrating with excitement to meet a King, so you decide to stop at the King nesting area next. You watch as the Kings flare their hoods, bow, and begin their displays. Not to be outdone, your Felids hop out of their carrying bag to join in on the flexing and showing off. You notice that the King you’ve been eyeing (he’s so strong and handsome!) seems particularly enamored with the Felids. His eyes are sparkling with joy at their antics. You mentally check the King off of your list of adoptions as he helps you corral your rambunctious Felids back into their bag.
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*Next, you’re looking for a Krait and FireRing, and from what Vex has told you, it’s easy to find these lamias already paired up. Your Papython is preoccupied with carrying the Corny who is exchanging jokes with Saffron the Honey Bo, but Cinnamon the sassy Coral is paying very close attention to the Kraits and FireRings as you approach them. A FireRing approaches you with a whiteboard, but when you introduce yourself in sign language his flames crackle with joy. Cinnamon watches the silent conversation before waving for attention and very slowly spelling out his own name, followed by a rather crude sign language gesture. 
*You didn’t know that Cinnamon had learned a bit of sign language, and you’re proud of him, although maybe not quite proud of the fact that he has to include that particular gesture with his name. The FireRing doesn’t miss a beat, signing a friendly hello to Cinnamon, including the added the sign at the end of his name. The Krait with the FireRing waves shyly at your Coral, who nods in acknowledgement. Then Cinnamon does something very interesting.
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*Cinnamon the Coral slither down from your hood to the front pocket of your hoodie. Staring directly at the Krait, he pushes the pocket open wide. You’re still conversing in sign language with the FireRing, and you watch out of the corner of your eye as the Krait sneakily slithers into the offered pocket. Cinnamon then returns to his lofty personal perch in your hood. The FireRings flames dance with amusement as you help him join his friend in the hoodie pocket.
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*Stage 2 complete!
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localswordlesbian · 3 years
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in case you don’t live forever
Martin panics when he notices Jon's eyes open as he sleeps, forcing him to remember a horrible six months in a hospital with so much uncertainty. Afterwards, Jon introduces Martin to one of he and Georgie's university traditions – stick poke tattoos.
(also known as i’m back on my bullshit of posting old fics from ao3 here on tumblr)
i’ve also got a playlist of all the songs that my fics are titled after, find it here
read it on ao3 or below the cut
The sun was rarely enough to wake Martin up.
Normally, he’d set himself an alarm, but more often than not Jon would wake up before his alarm anyway and he would much rather wake up to Jon shaking his arm and saying his name than some stupid, blaring alarm.
That morning, though, Martin woke up first. The sky was still dark, with the barest hint of the orange of sunrise peeking in through the curtains and tinting the dark floors. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes blearily as his vision focused on the slumbering figure next to him.
His heart leapt into his throat and he couldn’t hold in a gasp as he saw Jon, lying on his side with a hand on the pillow next to where Martin’s head had been, eyes wide open and staring at nothing.
Martin was suddenly back beside that hospital bed, watching Jon stare at the ceiling, all but dead – Martin gripping his cold, cold hand, begging himself not to cry and Jon to wake up, please wake up, I need you–
He was back in his bedroom, heart thundering, silent tears trekking down his cheeks and dripping onto his pyjamas, his hands shaking as an uncontrollable shiver passed through his entire body and he clasped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his sobs.
Jon’s face was stoic in sleep, and Martin slowly reached a hand out, hovering over where his pulse would be, if he wasn’t dead. If he hadn’t slipped away from Martin while they slept, and this time, not to return to life – to him. His hands still shaking, he placed two fingers delicately against Jon’s neck, because he had to check, he had to know, he had to–
There, beneath his fingers, was a pulse. Martin released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and he tried desperately to contain his sobbing, sobs of relief that flooded through his veins at the realization that the man he loved was alive.
“Martin?”
He heard Jon’s voice breaking through his panic a moment before he felt hands taking his and squeezing his fingers tightly. He focused on that sensation, the feeling of his own knuckles digging into his skin, of Jon’s hands enveloping his own with a gentle firmness, a grounding force that said I’m here, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere .
Once his heartbeat had calmed into a manageable beat, he opened his eyes. Jon was sitting in front of him, still holding onto his hands, looking at him with such worry in his eyes that Martin’s heart twisted. “Are you okay?”
Martin nodded slowly, squeezing Jon’s hands. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Waking you, I guess.”
“Martin,” Jon said, his voice painfully gentle. “Don’t– please don’t apologize.”
Martin choked down another apology, forcing himself to look at Jon. His eyes were open and expressive, not that blank stare of both sleep and death; his brows furrowed and even in the dark Martin could tell he was frowning. “I’m okay, I promise.”
Jon pursed his lips. “I was– I did it again, didn’t I?”
Martin nodded. “It’s not… I know you can’t control it, I just… every time I see it, I’m back in that hospital room all over again.”
Jon nodded, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Martin’s chest, his head just under Martin’s chin. “I’m sorry, love.” he murmured.
Martin snorted. “It’s not your fault, it’s not like you asked to die.”
Jon hummed. “I know. I suppose it just felt appropriate to say.”
They held each other as the sun began to trickle its way into the room, orange light spilling onto the floor and the fear began to ebb from Martin’s chest. He knew, logically, that Jon sometimes still slept with his eyes open and that didn’t mean he’d suddenly died in his sleep, but he could never seem to shake that fear – he’d seen what Jon looked like dead, and the two didn’t look different enough for comfort.
Eventually they stood, feeling as close to okay as they could get. As Jon ran his hands through his hair, Martin noticed something peeking out from behind his ear.
“Jon?” he called. “What’s that? Behind your ear?”
Jon seemed to instinctively move his hand up over the spot Martin was pointing to, his expression surprised. “Oh, that. It’s, well, it’s kind of a funny story, actually. In university, Georgie went through a phase of learning how to do stick-poke tattoos. She taught me to do them and we gave each other new ones as soon as the old ones wore off. One day, on our first day of our last year, she convinced me to pick a favourite one to get tattooed. I wanted one that wouldn’t be too visible, so I got it behind my ear.”
Martin gaped at him. “You have a tattoo ?” he demanded.
Jon chuckled. “I’m a man of many mysteries,” he teased.
Martin rolled his eyes. “To know and never be known, what an existence,” he deadpanned, and Jon laughed. “Come here and let me see it.”
Jon smiled as he walked over, moving his hair aside so Martin could get a better look at the lines of ink behind his ear. It was a design of a simplistic cassette tape, with spools of tape spilling from the top and creating a loopy heart pattern above it.
“It was Georgie’s design,” Jon explained softly. “Feels a little ironic now,” he said with a laugh. “And yet, I can’t bring myself to regret it.”
Jon was standing in front of where Martin was sitting on the bed, hardly having to lean down to make the tattoo eye level with Martin. Leaning up slightly, Martin pressed his lips to the ink briefly before smiling up at Jon. “It’s pretty.”
Jon nodded, pushing his hair behind his ear. “Yes. In fact, I think I still remember how to do stick-poke tattoos,” he mused.
Martin smirked. “Are you implying something?”
Jon smacked his shoulder. “Arse.”
“Coming from you.”
Jon curled a strand of Martin’s hair around his finger – the pink was starting to fade, and Martin wondered if he should redye it. He liked the pink. “I think it’d suit you.”
Martin considered for a moment. He’d never thought about tattoos, never thought there would be anything he’d want on his body forever, but he supposed something temporary…
“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”
That was how they ended up on the bathroom floor, hardly more than an hour after dawn, with Jon dipping a needle into a bottle of ink, because of course you just had that lying around, Jon . “What design do you want?” Jon asked.
Martin considered for a moment. It’s not like it was consequential – just a small, temporary tattoo on his ankle, easily covered by a sock if needed. “Surprise me.”
Jon considered for a moment before setting to work. Martin hissed as the needle punctured his skin, though he waved off Jon’s concern. The needle stung each time Jon stuck it in his ankle, though he quickly adjusted to the pain as Jon worked, concentrating on making sure he didn’t mess up the design. Martin sat back on his hands. “How exactly did this little tradition with Georgie come about?” he asked.
Jon thought for a moment. “She was stressed about an exam one night,” he said. “Said she needed to do something with all her pent-up energy instead of stewing in it. So she learned how to do these as a form of stress relief, and when I commented on it she insisted on giving me a couple, too. I guess it just stuck from there – they always faded after a while, so there was no real commitment issue, and they were fun.”
Martin chuckled. “Sounds like you were a real enigma in university,” he mused.
Jon laughed. “Certainly compared to now.”
Martin watched Jon’s hands as he worked with deftly injecting the ink under his skin. “I never got to go to university,” he mused. “Despite how stressful it sounds, I think I would have liked to go.”
Jon looked up at him. “Why don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not like it’s ever really too late to go to school. You could enroll now, part time or full time, study something you love. Major in poetry.”
“If you didn’t have a needle to my ankle, I’d smack you.”
Jon chuckled. “I mean it. You could have that experience you never got to have.”
Martin considered this. He’d never thought about going to school as a grown adult, taking classes and exams and having fun with other students – that particular part of growing up had been stolen from him too soon. He imagined getting up in the morning, grabbing his tea to go, walking across a campus with books in his arms on his way to a class where he’d get to discuss… something. “I suppose I could… give it a try,” he said slowly.
Jon gave him an encouraging smile as he sat back, depositing the needle. “Well, it’s done.”
Martin looked at the design on his ankle – it was a looping cursive design, branching off and creating separate designs of flowers and stars as it turned in a circle like an intricate ouroboros. Despite knowing it was written in English, Martin had no clue what it said, and he expressed as much to Jon.
Jon ducked his head. “It, uh… it says I see you .”
A lump formed in Martin’s throat as tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to make a joke, a comment about how corny it was, but all that came out was a choked “Jon,” and then Jon had his arms around him and his face was buried in Jon’s hair. “I love you,” he whispered.
Jon rubbed his back soothingly, knowing what those words meant to him – they meant he was not alone, that he had someone in this world who cared for him, who would never let him forget how loved he was.
They both knew that, even once the ink faded from his skin, those words would ring through for the rest of their lives. Jon saw him, back then when he was lost and broken and desperately in need of a hand to hold, and Jon supplied that hand with patience and love. Martin did the same for Jon, those days where his guilt got the better of him, when he was left feeling empty and meaningless in the aftermath of his powers.
Later that week, tattoo still fresh on his ankle, Martin looked up at Jon over his tea. “I’m going to apply to the University of London.”
Jon gave him a soft smile. “Good, good,” Jon murmured. “I’m really proud of you, Martin.”
Martin smiled back. “Me too.”
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hellyeah2500 · 4 years
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pleasantly underwhelmed
She laid next to him in his bed, still in a deep sleep. He supposed talking non-stop for 35 years could do that to a person. She faced him, curled in on herself. It was the most vulnerable he’d seen her since she’d cried about the stress of the Dragonfly a few weeks ago, and he felt compelled to pull her a little closer to him. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, on her soft, dark hair, that looked beautiful even now. She smelled like clean laundry and perfume. He’d always wondered what this would be like, laying in bed with Lorelai Gilmore, and now that it was here, he was pleasantly underwhelmed.
He didn’t like to think of himself as a romantic. The idea of “soul mates” had made him uncomfortable for as long as he could remember, and his track record with women wasn’t exactly anything to be proud of. Still, those cheesy tapes he’d listened to in an act of desperation had brought him to Lorelai, and he’d listen to them a thousand times over if it meant he could keep holding her like this. It all felt right, as corny as it sounded, and it made him comfortable. It was like she was built to fit in his arms, like Christopher, and Max, and that goddamned Jason were idiots for ever giving up someone so perfect. In truth, he was in awe of just how perfect she was.
He’d never admit it to anyone, but she’d always sort of scared him. Not the parts of her that scared most people, like her general intensity, or her inability to let things go, or her seriously concerning coffee addiction (okay, maybe that did scare him a little), but the parts she didn’t talk about. Everyone who knew Lorelai knew her deep resentment for her upbringing, and how far she’d come from it. He admired her ambition for completely recreating her life, and her phenomenal job raising Rory all by herself, but he was terrified that no matter what she did, she’d always have the “rich kid” mindset buried somewhere inside her, underneath all the pop culture references he was still struggling to grasp how she’d memorized. It’s not like she was obnoxious, well, no more obnoxious than she usually was, but sometimes he’d catch the tiniest scrunch of her nose at something he served in the diner, or the faintest eye roll at his usual attire of jeans, flannels, and T-Shirts. He knew, of course, it was probably in his head, and it definitely didn’t stop him from putting her in her place when she did things like go behind the counter after he’d told her a billion times customers weren’t allowed back there, or when she used her damn cell phone despite the very explicit sign that hung behind the aforementioned counter, but when he allowed himself to entertain the idea of pursuing a romantic relationship with The Woman of a Million Words, it gave him just a touch of anxiety. But to be here, like this, so raw and honest, it all felt so genuine. She was comfortable. She wasn’t judgmental, she wasn’t picky, she just was, and she was his.
The sun streamed in through the bedroom window, illuminating their intertwined figures in a vivid, yellow-orange glow that reminded him of the egg-yolks he saw every morning at work. God, was he glad he closed the diner for breakfast that day. Lorelai groaned, burying her face deeper into his side, “Too bright...turn it off…”
He chuckled, folding his free arm to rest his hand behind his head, “Turn what off, the sun?”
She groaned again, this time opting for a nod instead of an actual verbal response. Her body was warm against his, and though he hated himself for having such cheesy thoughts, he would’ve given anything to live in the moment forever.
“My oven mitts are downstairs, you’ll have to remind me next time you want me to interact with the giant flaming ball of gas in the sky,” He joked.
Lorelai flopped onto her back, opening her bright blue eyes to glare furiously at the ceiling, “You’re not very funny when I’m undercaffinated, y’know,” She huffed, crossing her arms. The back of her head still rested in between his arm and chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of it.
“I’ll tell my writers to give me better material,” He couldn’t believe how easy it all was. Their dynamic was exactly the same, he just got to kiss her when he wanted her to shut up. It was a dream come true. “I take it you’re ready for coffee?”
“What on Earth would give you that impression?” She shifted onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow so that she was just above his face, “Is it the timer on my forehead that goes off if I don’t have at least a cup and a half within 15 minutes of waking up? I’ve been meaning to look into customized alarms...what do you think of ‘Hey-Ya’?”
He shook his head, unable to hide his exasperated, yet slightly amused smirk, “Not even ‘Jenny From The Block’, huh?”
She gasped, “You listen to J-Lo!? Lucas Millicent Danes, I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you than I am at this very moment!”
“I don’t—I mean—not...on the regular, I just happened to catch her on the radio the other day,” He grumbled, aware of and slightly embarrassed by the faint blush he knew was tainting his cheeks, “And that is not my middle name.”
“Two sugars, please, Gigli,” Lorelai teased, her lips curved into the grin she always wore when she pestered him. She dropped from her position above him and her head fell onto the pillow, just below his face. He could feel her breath on his neck as she pressed a few soft kisses onto his jawline. “Also, have you ever heard of shaving? It’s like barbed wire down here,”
“You’re annoying, anybody ever tell you that?” He murmured, closing his eyes and pulling her close again.
“Mmm, no, actually, never heard that before,” She continued kissing him, moving up from his jaw to his earlobe, “Maybe somebody should.”
“Hey, Lorelai?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re annoying.”
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webcricket · 7 years
Text
Catch a Falling Star
Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 2282 (Part 4)
A/N: Part 4 of a Soulmate AU mini-series. My muse informed me this story is going to end up with more than 5 parts after all, primarily because Castiel is the most muse-inspiring angel in the garrison and also because Crowley popped in to throw a wrench into my plot outline. Demons, right?
Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Castiel and the reader are reunited, and it feels so fluffing good.
Completed series Masterlist:
webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist
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Harbinger of the oppressively rising temperature outside, a pearlescent green cicada, having that very morning exhaustively fought his way from the black loamy embrace of the Earth after a long slumber to shed his skin and unfold translucent purple-veined wings to the light of day, perched in the uppermost branches of a cottonwood vociferously worshipping the sun. A whispering breeze, freshened by undulant waters of the lake and heavily perfumed by newly blooming stargazer lilies planted in a mulched bed beneath a wide-open window, rustled sheer white curtains to disturb the still air of the room within. The draft mingled pleasantly with aromatic spices of Ceylon and mint emanating in an ethereal mist from a cup sat on the broad white wash windowsill and the luxuriously piquant scent of citrus lotion warmed upon the fingertips idly circling the delicate porcelain rim of the cup. The page of a book turned, accompanied by an unperturbed exhaling of honeyed breath.
Tucked bare-chested beneath soft linen sheets, swathed in bandages smelling of medicinal antiseptic and cooling liniment, Castiel awoke to the summer serenity of the room. Certain any movement whatsoever would disturb this unblemished dream within which he presently found himself peacefully enveloped, he lay quiet and motionless lest he shatter the prevailing calm.
Detecting a subtle change in the atmosphere, you peered up contemplatively from the hardcover book balanced on your knee to study your convalescing guest. Dark-hair magnificently disheveled, eyelids restfully shuttered by lush lashes, he appeared disappointingly unmoved since the last glance you ventured to steal. Your crestfallen gaze traversed out into the meticulously maintained English style garden beyond the window. The wild blue coneflowers, tamed many years ago in the far corner by persevering fingers, prepared to blossom that afternoon – each verdant stalk stretching toward the sky and leaden with gravid buds. Your attention flitted back to the man laid out on the bed, nagging instinct insisting something was different. Book slipping forgotten from your lap into a nook of the plush cushioned chair, you rose.
Cas did not require sight to perceive your increased proximity. He could clearly envisage the inquisitive glinting of your bright eyes examining him as you stood over his idle vessel. His heartbeat skipped time, hastening to match pace with the dashing thump of yours.
Noting the pernicious fluid draining from his shoulder wound with a frown, you plucked a clean stack of gauze from the bedside table and commenced gingerly picking at the corners of the soiled dressing protecting the muscular joint to loosen and pry it off.
Betraying his indolent guise, the angel winced at the pang of anguish induced by the well-meaning and careful dance of your fingertips.
“I’m sorry!” you gasped, recoiling at his rousing reaction. The squares of gauze scattered soundlessly to the floor in your dismay.
Cas knew no matter how attentive your ministrations, the injury deep enough to strike his grace would remain excruciatingly painful until he regained enough strength to mend the breach of his vessel from within. Eyelids flicking open, undeterred by agony or a one-time stubborn resolve to avoid the perilous incursion into your life, he reached out unhesitatingly for your withdrawing limb, capturing you gently by the wrist. “It’s alright,” he sputtered, voice thick and husky with disuse, “you didn’t hurt me.”
Drifting nearer, you did not resist acquiescing to his adamantly tender grip, or tumbling into the extraordinary and oddly familiar blue depths of his eyes.
“Thank you. Thank you for…,” he stared blankly, jaw tensing in an attempt to formulate a coherent sentiment from a memory he could not summon. The last thing he recalled was tussling with a particularly burly demon, angelic might focusing to smite him when a force outside his control uprooted him from the scene. He couldn’t be certain he’d dispatched the demon before being banished. He was fairly certain the Winchesters were more than capable of handling the mess. He vaguely remembered crashing and, in a dazzlingly bright moment of sheer exhaustion, total vulnerability, and defeat of will, yielding to whatever fate providence deigned to offer up to him just then. And now here he lay – safe, comforted, entrusted to your care, and in precisely the last place he expected to be. He released your wrist, repeating himself for lack of available words, “For…”
“For dragging your half-conscious body out of the woods after you fell out of the sky and landed at my feet?” you supplied, brow fervidly arching. “You’re welcome.”
His expressive blues flew wide in genuine surprise in consideration of how casually you seemed to be taking the odd manner of his arrival.
“You really don’t remember?” you pondered aloud, a charmed smile illuminating your aspect. “Seems like something that’d be hard to forget. Unless, of course, this kind of thing happens to you routinely.”
Any higher reasoning regarding why you’d be better off not knowing him in affront to your deep universal bond was circumvented entirely by his weakened physical state, he mutely dared to hope any and all unfortunate future banishments routinely concluded at your feet.
“You’d better let me get this wound covered again before it gets infected.”
The angel nodded, not protesting your renewed efforts to tend to his shoulder. Seemingly struck speechless in your presence, he didn’t bother to mention the fact that there was no possible risk of infection when you began to swipe the yawning fracture of oozing flesh with betadine. Rather, sheets balled tightly in his fists, he stoically endured the overwhelming stinging discomfort without a single impolite grunt or growl to deter your actions.
“Where are you from anyway?” you asked, attempting to distract him from the burn of antibiotic ointment as you packed the wound.
“Originally?” he spoke through gritted teeth.
“It’s a place to start,” you angled your head sideways to inspect the final tape job, firmly pressing the edges to seal the bandage to his skin. Squinting, finding the result satisfactory, you bit your lower lip with a small nod of approval and removed your hands.
Cas did not fail to notice the cute quirk through his involuntarily tearing vision. Managing a moderately pain free relieved inhalation, he relaxed, retorting with the first thing to spring to mind, “Origins almost always are.”
A cheerful bubbling laugher emerged from your throat as you sat on the edge of the bed, absent-mindedly smoothing the wrinkled sheet beside him with a flattened palm.
The angel could not have prevented the smile drawing across his mouth if his continued angelic existence, nay, the perpetuation of all life in the creation, depended upon it. The sound of your laughter rang out as a delightful symphony in his ears. Deciding he had no reason to lie to you, and determining furthermore that masking his identity with misdirection seemed pointless, he pointed heavenward in answer.
You followed the indicated direction to look up at the rustic shiplap ceiling. A perplexed wrinkle creased your brow. “So…you’re what…an alien?”
“Angel,” he corrected.
“That was my second guess,” you remarked with a teasing grin.
“You don’t seem surprised.” His hand sought yours of its own volition, the rough pads of his fingers settling lightly across your knuckles.
Uncannily composed given his celestial revelation and the strangely comfortable contact between you that should be unnerving given his status as an almost complete stranger but instead felt more natural than any touch you’d experienced before, you met his warm regard. “Well, out of all the extremely fantastical possibilities I imagined while waiting for you to wake up to explain a man falling mostly uninjured out of the sky, you being an angel seems pretty darn ordinary.”
“I suppose it does,” he concurred. Noticing his errant hand, he decided he did not wish to remove it, even when his thumb boldly took it upon itself to trace a small expanding circle into your smooth skin.
“And also, I talked to your friend Dean last night.”
“Oh.” His thumb arrested its endeavor. The angel could not begin to fathom the scope of what Dean may or may not have said to you. The potentials were endless.
You continued, assuaging the angel’s unspoken concern, “He told me your name. Castiel. Cas, for short. He also said you’d probably be fine as long as I absolutely didn’t feed you after midnight. Does he always pepper random corny movie references into serious conversation?”
“It’s a coping mechanism of his. Or maybe a tick. Sometimes I find it hard to discern the difference. The grimmer the circumstances, the funnier he gets. I’m regularly surprised at how effective his brand of humor is at diffusing grave situations.”
“He must have been very worried about you then, because he was hilariously awful,” you noted. “Is he an angel too?”
“No, he’s a h-,” Cas stopped himself from saying hunter. He didn’t see the need to blacken the innocence of your world with knowledge of the monsters inhabiting it – angels were a destructive enough force with which to reckon. “A human. Dean and his brother Sam are the closest thing I have to family.”
“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, smiling.
“What about you, your family?”
Lip quivering, your smile faltered, despair darkening your expression.
Cas squeezed your hand consolingly. Remembering too late the hospital’s inability to locate a next of kin, he apologized, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I-I forgot.”
Withdrawing your hand from his grasp, you regarded him suspiciously, sniffling, “Forgot?”
He guiltily diverted his gaze, instantly recognizing his mistake in your bewildered reaction. After healing you at the hospital, he’d instructed you to forget him, and you had.
“How do you know so much about me?” you stood up from the bed, stepping back warily.
He struggled to sit upright to follow your retreat, clutching at his throbbing shoulder, groaning, “I can explain.”
You denied the tortuously strong inclination to help ease his struggle that yanked furiously at every nerve ending in your trembling frame.
“I was with you,” he strained, “at the hospital.” Giving up, he collapsed back onto the pillow in a fit of agony.
You recalled the passing mention of the man who stayed by your side. Dark hair. Trench coat. Handsome. Sad blue eyes. Your guardian angel according to the orderly who discharged you. Apprehension appeased by this recollection, you sprang forward, perching again on the edge of the bed, swiping the hair from his anguished brow. “You’re the mystery man who kept vigil over me,” you murmured, half-question, half-statement.
He nodded, “Yes, until I had strength enough to save you.”
“Then you’re my…my guardian angel?”
His torso rattled with a shaky remorseful breath, “I’m not. I stayed…I stayed to save you from me.”
“The doctors said my recovery was a miracle. You healed me, didn’t you? Why would I need to be saved from you? You’re the reason I’m alive.”
“You don’t know who I am, what I am to you, do you?” he asked, tilting his chin, appreciating for the first time that perhaps your limited human perception prevented you from hearing his divine heart beat for you as clearly as he distinguished the brilliance of your soul radiating for him.
“What are you talking about?”
He lifted two fingers to your temple, hovering them there, seeking permission to return the memories he took from you and more, “May I show you?”
“Show me what?” Eyelids fluttering shut, you submitted to his touch.
“Everything.”
Castiel, angel of the Lord, fallen, fated by design of the universe to be your match, your soulmate, hid nothing of himself from you. He divulged the vast span of his existence in exacting detail from his creation to this very moment. He held back none of the destructive angelic fury, none of the nagging doubts, none of the errors of judgement, none of the innocent or justified deaths on his blood-stained hands, none of the self-righteous indignation, none of the betrayal of friend and foe alike, none of the deep sorrow, none of the profound regret, none of the insurmountable quests for penance he attached to his many failures, none of the unremitting conviction of worthlessness, and none of the intractable belief that once you perceived him for the broken being he was you would have no choice but to reject him.
When you recovered your deluged wits, you found yourself nestled snuggly against the angel, quietly sobbing, arm draped across his torso and secure in his warmly encircling embrace. The last rays of the sinking sun shone through the window, reflecting off the lake to paint vivid shimmering orange-hued swaths of color across the far wall. Sensing your wakefulness, he gently wiped the streaming tears from your cheeks in turn.
You continued to weep – not because you pitied or feared or loathed him. You wept – not because you were overcome by the ferocity and dejection of the angelic maelstrom that he revealed to you. You wept because in himself he did not acknowledge the redemptive qualities of kindness, gentleness, courage, loyalty, strength, perseverance, hope, and the sense of wonder which equally defined him. You wept because the boundless capacity for love anchored within his heart was also the source of his unbearable suffering – he hurt intensely only because he loved deeply. Bearing the weight of this burden alone, it was no wonder to you that he fell from Heaven. Propping yourself up on an elbow to gaze bleary-eyed and undaunted into his fretfully furrowed features, you eased nearer to place a tearful smiling kiss upon his lips.
Castiel did not lose himself in the kiss as the clichéd saying goes. Rather, in the pliant give of your salt-laced lips, the angel found the one thing he’d always been searching for – home.
Part 5:
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